THEME: Empath by Fayne

Note - I forgot to mention in the foreword, all songs that I list here are available on Spotify and Youtube at the time of posting.

Disclaimer: Skyrim is the property of Microsoft through Bethesda Softworks. This work is intended for enjoyment purposes and in no way assumes ownership of the product. No copyright infringement intended.

It was a cold Frostfall morning as Arin galloped down the road. He pulled his cloak tighter across his body, balancing body heat while trying to enjoy the cooler weather. After weeks of travel, it was nice to finally breathe the crisp Skyrim air. The Throat of the World loomed in the distance, and just the sight of the mountain brought thoughts of home: Honningbrew mead, meat fresh from the marketplace, the warmth of Jorrvaskr, and the merriment of the Bannered Mare.

The last thought made Arin smile. Memories of home had made his return trip from Daggerfall bearable in the cold, rain, and loneliness. Soon he would be lounging near the fire, a tankard in one hand, an arm around his friends, all singing whichever drinking song came to mind at the moment and placing bets on who would start the first fight. It had been three years since he had last seen home; three years too long.

The steady trot of his horse served as a constant reminder for just how long Arin had been riding and his legs were aching to stretch. As he came over a small creek bridge, he slowed his horse to a stop and hopped down from his saddle. Relief came instantly as Arin stretched for the sky and reached for his toes, his long, black, braided hair falling around his face and nearly touching the ground.

When he stood up, stars clouded his vision as he grabbed a rope on his saddle to keep himself from passing out, steadying himself from standing too fast. But, to his immediate and painful surprise, as his vision cleared, a fist met his face, and Arin was knocked against his horse while a foot used his back as a spring-board into the saddle above him.

"Ah! Fu-" Arin began to curse as he realized someone was trying to steal his horse. His swearing, however, was cut off by the force of the horse he had never let go of, the rope now thoroughly tangled around his wrist.

A moment ago, Arin had been savoring the thought of Tilma's lamb stew with the rock warbler eggs mixed into the broth. Now, he was hanging on for dear life as a pale, dirty man was stealing his horse and dragging him along.

"GET OFF MY HORSE!" Arin called around the mud that was being kicked into his mouth and caking into his beard. His heels were digging small trenches in the road while he searched for any sort of traction.

"Your loss! Just let go!" the man spat, sending a glob of saliva that hit Arin on the forehead.

"Fucker!" he swore.

A smile graced the thief's face as he reached to his belt and grabbed a small dagger. The horse rounded a bend in the road now, forcing Arin to pull his legs close to his body to avoid the cobblestone wall that lined the path.

"Fine, if you won't let go, I'll give you some help!"

The thief turned to face Arin, ready to stab at the trapped nord's hand, when fortunes reversed themselves. The horse took a sharp left turn off the road, before coming to a sudden stop and rearing back in distress, sending the thief backwards off the horse and tumbling into Arin. A sickening, audible crunch signaled Arin's arm coming loose from the rope, at the cost of his shoulder coming loose from its socket.

The two nords came to rest in a heap. Above them, the sound of unsheathing swords answered any questions about the horse's sudden halt: soldiers.

Men and women in blue cuirasses emblazoned with the Great Bear of Windhelm, the same symbol on their shields. There were easily twenty to thirty soldiers surrounding them, all with sharp blades trained on the intruders. There were four large tents set up in a semicircle, just off the road in a thicket, with small, personal tents erected nearby wherever there was room. Arin realized with dread what had happened; he had been drug directly into a Stormcloak encampment.

A nord with long blonde hair stepped forward to address the trespassers.

"Drop your weapons! And put your hands in the air!"

To Arin's ears, his thick Atmorran accent made his words sound as articulate and smooth as a brick wall.

Sounds a lot like Vilkas, actually…

The thief, who was just now shaking off the shock of the crash, dropped his dagger in fear. Arin simply held his arm, any weapons he might have had on him lost in the chase.

"Harald, bind them!"

A large, balding nord quickly gripped the thief from behind and tied his arms together tightly. As the nord named 'Harald' reached for Arin, Arin shook his head and met the vocal nord's gaze.

"My arm is busted. If you bind me now, it will get worse. All of my weapons were lost earlier while I was being drug half-fucking-way across Skyrim. I couldn't do anything if I wanted too." Steel entered Arin's voice as he made his challenge. The pain in his shoulder was sharp and consistent. He knew when he was beaten, but considering himself a true nord, Arin had no intention of giving up as easily as the horse thief had. So, he took a breath and stood up straight, making eye contact with the soldiers around him, showing no fear. This at least got a smirk out of his would-be captor.

"Very well. Sit them down," the blonde nord made eye contact with someone Arin couldn't see, "and bring medicine for the pain."

"Pain-," Arin began to ask before his injured right arm was wrenched from his grasp and twisted above his head, the torque of the movement forcing his arm back into socket. The pain was sharp and jolted through his arm and down his back, nearly causing him to pass out.

Arin dropped to his knees and bit his cheek to keep from crying out. He flexed and gripped his hand, forcing the feeling back into his arm. Rising as the pain dulled to a stiffness, Arin turned around, finding a seat on one of the wooden stumps that had been placed in the clearing of the camp. The thief was already seated and bound.

Arin strode over to him, casting a long shadow over the man. The thief started to stammer an apology.

"H-hey. Sorry about the horse...and...ya know-" he was cut off when Arin punched him in the face with his uninjured arm, knocking the thief off of his stump and onto the ground. Then, Arin calmly took a seat at another nearby stump. A deep voice coming from one of the large tents let out an amused chuckle.

"What was his crime?" The voice belonged to a man emerging from a tent to the right of the new prisoners. He was tall, tall enough that the shadow of the tent remained on his face long after his boots had kissed the morning sun. His hair was braided and corded, much like Arin's, only lighter in color, and fell around the furs draped over his shoulders. A bear, fashioned into a cowl, fell across his right shoulder with intimidation. As he stepped fully into the sunlight, Arin suppressed a slight gasp as he looked upon this man.

"Well? What did this man do to deserve your fist?" Ulfric Stormcloak asked as he tossed a small red bottle to Arin, who flinched in pain as he instinctively caught the bottle with his injured right hand.

Arin used his teeth to pull the cork from the bottle before he answered.

"Tried to steal my horse," Arin said as he sniffed the contents of the bottle. The earthy smell of a healing potion assaulted his nose with hints of muddy water and dirt, just like all potions in his opinion.

Arin downed the bottle, breathing out of his nose to keep from retching the vile-tasting contents back onto the ground.

"Not a man of many words, eh?" Ulfric turned his attention to the horse-thief, "What's your name, thief?"

"L-Lokir." In Arin's eyes, he might as well have been shrinking. He was dwarfed, both by the man standing above him, and by the situation in front of him.

"Horse theft has caused many innocent deaths in these lands, especially being on the border of the Reach, what with the ledges, crags, not to mention the Forsworn…" the blonde nord from earlier chimed in, leaning on a chair under a tent and smoking from a pipe.

"Ralof speaks true. You, thief. You will remain bound until we make for our next camp. We will leave you on the road during the journey, so that you may experience the desperate situation you would have subjected your fellow nord to. Thievery is a cowardly action, unbecoming of a true-nord of Skyrim. May your bravery emerge during your penance."

Following his words, Ulfric nodded to some nearby soldiers and Lokir the horse thief was led away, leaving Arin seated on the stump, massaging his shoulder.

"What's your name, traveler?" Ulfric asked Arin.

Arin leaned forward and set the potion bottle on the ground at his feet, before sitting up to address the man in front of him, "Arinbjorn. Most just call me Arin."

"Where are you from, Arinbjorn?"

"Whiterun."

"Well then. How is your arm, Arinbjorn of Whiterun?" Arin couldn't quite tell if this man was making small talk, or if he genuinely wanted to know. Either way, Arin wasn't usually much for words. Not with strangers, anyway.

"Throbbing, but healing. Thank you, Jarl Ulfric." Arin absently answered, his shoulder pain downgrading from hurting to heavy soreness.

Ulfric raised his brow in amusement. "You know who I am?"

"Of course. All of Tamriel knows your name," Arin leaned back on his left arm, bracing it against the back of the stump, "and you hear a lot on the streets of Daggerfall City."

"Daggerfall? How does a man of Skyrim find himself on the streets of Daggerfall City?" Ulfric leaned against the wooden frame of his tent.

The sun was starting to rise high in the sky by this point, its rays blinding Arin, making him squint.

"Merchant work, mostly. Selling some weapons I made back home. Worked as a sword-for-hire as well. Why are you here, instead of the safety of your city?"

Ulfric stood a little straighter.

"No man who hides behind the safety of walls is fit to lead anyone. Nor should any army follow the orders of such a man. Therefore, I am here with my people, the men and women of Skyrim who would give their lives for Her freedom."

After this statement, Ulfric abruptly stood and turned back to his tent, calling out, "Ralof. See to it that our merchant friend's horse is cared for tonight, and that he receives a bedroll. We will escort him to the mouth of Lake Ilinalta, then continue on to camp Jeor."

"Aye," Ralof the blonde nord responded as he set his pipe down and left his seat.

"Thank you, Jarl. May I ask something, though?

"Of course."

"Why the hospitality? How do you know I am not an Imperial spy?"

Ulfric responded with an intelligent, wry smile, "I don't. But in the face of danger, you stood tall and unafraid. That is enough for my respect. Rest well, Arinbjorn of Whiterun."

The regiment of rebels and their unaffiliated guest had reached Lake Ilinalta by noon the next day, and stopped to stretch their legs. It was an overcast late afternoon, with rain promising to arrive the next day. Men in blue armor shuffled back and forth, taking turns refilling water skins at the lakefront, adjusting saddle straps, or walking feeling back into their legs. Arin simply found a comfortable spot on a hill near the lake to park himself. A lone tree above him gave shade from the few rays of sunlight that peeled through the clouds. Ralof, the blonde nord from the day before, sat with him, striking up a conversation.

"So, where do you go from here?" Ralof asked as he puffed on his pipe. It was a small device, wooden and no larger than his hand, which made it easy to bring along with him on campaign.

"I'm hoping to make it to Helgen by midday tomorrow, stop in Riverwood for the night if the sun sets early, but if Talos allows, I'll hope to be sleeping at home in Whiterun instead." Arin answered while absent-mindedly sharpening an iron dagger Ulfric had gifted him that morning, a replacement for the one lost during the scuffle with the now-stranded Lokir. He had been left tied to a tree many miles back and many hours ago.

"That's right, you're from Whiterun, eh? I grew up in Riverwood. My father used to sell lumber near the Pelagia farm. What part of the city are you from?"

"Plains district. My family died before I knew them, so I made my home in Jorrvaskr with my friends for quite some time."

Ralof raised his eyebrows, "So you're a Companion, then?"

"No, no, not quite," Arin chuckled, "More like a companion to the Companions. We are…good friends." Now they truly were talking about home. Mead, meat, and merriment once more filled him with reverie.

If it weren't for the damned horse thief, I'd be much closer to home than I am now. Talos, please let Tilma make extra stew tomorrow…

A grumble in Arin's stomach pulled him to reality, and drew a laugh from Ralof.

"Here," he said with a smile, pulling a stick of jerky from a pack at his side and tossing it to Arin, "Horker. Tough and salty, but enough to fill the belly."

Arin smiled in thanks, raising the jerky in a mock toast and taking a bite. It certainly was tough, with a salty, almost fishy taste, but it was satisfying.

A calm silence spread between the two as they ate their meal. The clouds overhead became darker, negating any shadow the tree above had given them.

"What do you think of Ulfric?" Ralof asked, curiosity in his eyes.

"Good man, I guess," Arin paused, thinking of how to say his next words, "He speaks a little pretentious though, no?"

Ralof cracked up and chuckled at the statement, shaking his head because he couldn't deny it.

Just then, a commotion from the edge of the camp grabbed their attention. Some of the scouts on watch were calling to the soldiers below. Arin and Ralof stood from their spot and crossed the hill to its highest point to get a clear view from on high. A horse being ridden by a small man was barreling down the road towards the camp, looking behind himself every few seconds. He looked like he was running from something.

Soldiers drew their swords, but no one seemed particularly worried. As Arin watched on, it seemed that this man was an unwelcome annoyance, but not a threat. That is, until Ralof saw exactly who it was on the horse. He visibly stiffened.

"It's that thief," he said, turning towards Arin. The hair on the back of Arin's neck rose. He readied his dagger.

"Are you sure? You left him on the road hours ago."

"Positive. That's not the problem, though. Look at the horse…" Arin focused on the figure closing in. The horse wasn't very unique, just a large brown horse, native of Skyrim based on the build. Arin saw the issue though. It was the red insignia with a black dragon on a blanket attached to the saddle. Arin realized how much of a problem this was.

"He stole a legion horse?" Arin asked incredulously.

"Which means our enemy is probably on their way!" Ralof turned on his heel and sprinted back towards the camp to spread the word. Arin followed suit, running to pack his bags and loading his horse. Arin went through a mental checklist, trying to organize his thoughts and calm himself down.

Load up the horse and get the hell out of here. Get off the road. Cut across the countryside and head towards Helgen. Need to get away from these rebels. Need to get home...

His horse was fully loaded when Lokir galloped into the camp. It was obvious he did not mean to slow down, but the regiment of stormcloaks trying to remain hidden from the Empire were making it very difficult for him to maneuver through the camp.

Just then, an arrow whizzed through the air and struck Lokir in the shoulder, the force of the impact knocking him from the horse. From the direction of the arrow, a single Imperial archer stood from the tree line, bow lowering after hitting his target. With a whistle, an imperial cavalry galloped out of their hiding spot directly towards the rebel band.

The stormcloaks all drew their weapons, preparing for battle. From his perch at the edge of the camp, Arin caught a glimpse of Ulfric, grabbing a sword and shield and barking orders. Ralof had his sword and shield ready, trying to form a defensive line. One lone stormcloak did not ready for battle, instead jumping on a horse burdened with only a saddle, and galloped as fast as he could east, the direction the group had been heading.

Arin hopped on his horse, found a path up the embankment, and started galloping away as fast as he could, south of the impending fight.

"Get to the mountains..." Arin chanted to himself, "Hang out for a couple days...then get back on track. Just gotta get to the tree line...just get to the tree line...just get to the tree-"

Arin was fifty meters away when, from out of the forest, a line of Imperial cavalry emerged, ready for the flank. It was far too late for Arin to turn around, so he decided to do something stupid. He kicked his horse and started a fast, head-on charge. He was galloping too fast to move anyway and the imperials were closing in quickly, so he might as well try to break through the ranks.

The first spear thrust at Arin was slow and easy to avoid. The second one, however, aimed lower, was much faster, and missed its thrust by only a hair. It did succeed, though, in clotheslining him off his horse. Landing, his head hit the ground with an audible thud. His vision blurred, then was gone as he fell unconscious.

Arin awoke to a thrashing headache and an unnatural rocking motion. He leaned forward and violently retched onto the floor below him, nearly emptying his stomach all over himself. Unfortunately, he could not avoid aiming at his own feet.

Arin slowly tried to focus his eyes and saw he was in a wagon, along with others whose faces were still blurry. Slowly his surroundings began to clear, first his lap, then his hands, then the space around him.

"Hey. You're finally awake." Arin turned his head towards the voice and tried to steady his vision. Once the world stopped spinning, he saw that it was Ralof speaking. The nord's left eye was bruised around the socket, and his right eye was swollen shut. Dried blood splattered his face, and his hair was almost brown with dried mud. He looked as bad as Arin felt. Then Arin saw his hands bound.

Instinctually, Arin checked his own hands and found that they were bound too. Fighting against the rope did nothing but chafe his wrists. He was no longer in his cloak and leather armor. Now he was covered in a rough tunic, with matching trousers. Confusion nagged at his mind until the previous events returned to memory.

"Wh-what happened?" Arin's head felt like a hagraven had slapped him with a warhammer, or something like that at least, and his wrists were on fire from fighting the bindings.

"We got caught in an imperial ambush. I guess they had been waiting for us at the Ilinalta. We would have fallen right into it too, had it not been for your horse-thief stealing one of their stallions and blindly riding directly towards our camp. It gave us a chance to fight back. At least...a little."

Beside Ralof, Lokir shifted restlessly, bound and gagged, but still staring around nervously. His arm was in a sling, but the blood stains made it obvious no one had bothered to clean and close his wound. Ralof must have noticed Arin's quizzical look, because he answered with a wry smile.

"He wouldn't shut up about not being a rebel. Or stop whining about his shoulder. So, they gagged him. Doesn't look like they did a good job though..."

Arin's mind started to clear. Taking in his surroundings, he saw landmarks he recognized from years before.

"We're nearing Helgen, aren't we?"

The question roused Ralof from his own thoughts.

"Aye. Can't be far now. The town should just be over the next hill. I used to be sweet on a girl from here…"

Arin's mind was finally starting to clear, the haze from his fall seeping away. He was a prisoner, that much was painfully obvious. They were heading towards Helgen, a small, fortified village on the edge of Falkreath Hold. The rain began to fall.

"Helgen doesn't have a prison…" he thought aloud, catching the attention of Ralof, who came to the same conclusion very quickly.

"Aye. Only an imperial garrison with a torture room, if I remember correctly. There is only one reason they would have brought us here, then. It appears Sovngarde awaits…"

At this, Arin nodded, then leaned his head back against the cart and shut his eyes, a calm aura washing over him. Lokir's eyes, however, widened at the mention of Sovngarde. As the pieces all came together in his mind, he panicked and somehow managed to rip the gag from his mouth.

"We're going to the headsman? How are you two so calm about this?" He whispered to the nords sharing his cart. Fear colored his voice like the music of an out-of-tune lute.

"Why are you whispering? It's no secret where we're going," Arin commented without acknowledging the question.

"I knew they did a terrible job with that gag," Ralof chimed in.

"I'M NOT A REBEL! I stole a horse! A HORSE! That's only a fifty-gold fine in Skyrim! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!" Lokir continued in existential terror.

"Hey! Quiet back there! Who took the gag off yuh?" yelled a nearby imperial soldier, annoyed by the commotion.

"Soldiers! I'M NOT A REBEL! I'M NOT A STORMCLOAK! YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!" There was no reason in Lokir's eyes. There was only a look Arin knew all too well. The fear of death.

Ralof, apparently enjoying himself despite the shadow of death quickly looming over them all, smiled wryly.

"You know why we have no fear? Because we are true nords who know what awaits us in the next life. Face your death with some courage, thief! Maybe Tsun will let you pass if the headsman sees you smile." This even made Arin chuckle a bit, but Lokir only grew agitated, adding to his fear.

"You can die and feast in your make-believe halls all you want! I'm going to live!" Lokir pulled his arm from the sling and quickly grabbed the edge of the cart behind him, flipping himself out onto the road. As quickly as he landed, he was on his feet, running for freedom and running for his life. He might have made it too. But he didn't.

"Prisoner escaping! Archers!" Arin opened his eyes just in time to see Lokir take three in the back and one in the back of the throat. Then the caravan left Lokir alone on the road, riddled with arrows and ripe for the carrion.

The imperial soldier slowed his horse to ride alongside Ralof and Arin's cart. It was obvious he was from Cyrodiil, his swarthy skin contrasting against the bleak, winter color palette in the background.

"I thought you nords were s'posed to be brave or somethin'?" Ralof rolled his eyes at the tone of the soldier, but agreed with him nevertheless.

"Aye. An ignoble death for a nord."

Twenty minutes later, their cart rolled underneath the walls of Helgen. A tall imperial with grey hair oversaw their entrance into the village, his armor glistening in the late afternoon sun. He looked down his nose at the incoming prisoners, briefly making eye contact with Arin. There was a hate in his eyes, and Arin matched it. This brought a smile to the imperial's face before he turned on his heel.

"This is it, my friend. The end of the road…" Ralof said to Arin, trailing off as the wagon came to a stop on the far side of the town. Arin simply nodded in reply. An imperial legate was barking orders from across the yard.

"Leave from the cart and await your name. Step forward once you're called and await further instructions," she said in a thick Atmorran accent.

Arin and Ralof slowly hopped from the cart, joining the growing queue of stormcloaks, waiting for the fate they all knew was coming but no one else would say out loud.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. Step forward."

There was a murmur among the group; some exasperated sighs, some cries of disbelief, some teeth gritting in anger. From a cart on the far side of the line, a man bound and gagged exited his own cart alone. His braided cords were caked in mud, and fresh scars coated his face and tattered clothes. Yet his face still held the same regal, proud, angry look it had held days ago when Arin had first met him in his camp.

The old imperial general walked up to meet him face to face. Ulfric remained unbowed. The two maintained eye contact as the old imperial spoke.

"Your reign of terror ends today, Ulfric. Some here call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. Today, we enact justice in the name of Emperor Titus Mede II. Long live the emperor."

"LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!" Came the reply from the surrounding imperial legion soldiers.

In response, Ulfric simply walked past him and joined his men bunched together in binds. He came to a stop near Ralof and Arin, allowing Ralof one final exchange.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." In response, Ulfric's eyes softened.

Something's up…Arin thought as names were called down, Ulfric is caught. We're all heading for Sovngarde, but he's standing as proud as ever. Either he's not afraid of death, which is totally believable, or he's planning something…

The rain began to pour heavier now. Arin's hair began to stick to his forehead as he watched name after name called forward, wondering who would be next, and when his own time would come.

"Ralof of Riverwood. Step forward."

Ralof walked forward as bid, but instead of heading towards the line of stormcloaks, he walked directly towards the imperial legionnaire calling names. Soldiers near him reached for their weapons, but the legionnaire waved them off and stood his ground. He was broad chested, with a square jaw and auburn hair, but by his voice and his demeanor, he was a nord through and through.

Coming to a stop almost nose-to-nose with his counterpart, Ralof spoke, sporting a wry smile that Arin figured was his signature.

"Hadvar. Nice of you to show up for my execution. How long has it been?"

"Not long enough, traitor. Get in line and get out of my sight." Hadvar the legionnaire spat back. Just the sight of Ralof sent a vein of anger popping from his forehead.

"You still furrow your brow when you're mad. I told you to work on that once; you don't remember?" There was a mocking tone in Ralof's voice, almost sing-song.

Hadvar stepped towards Ralof, leaning close and putting his mouth at his ear, speaking softly enough that only a few nearby could hear.

"Move now. Or you will be moved. Don't force me to leave your head as a gift on Gerdur's doorstep."

This seemed to strike a chord, because the blonde nord then spat directly in Hadvar's face. Calmly, deliberately, Hadvar wiped the saliva from his cheek, before using the same hand to slap Ralof's face, knocking him to the ground. He then landed three sharp kicks into Ralof's stomach, leaving the stormcloak coughing in the mud.

"GET HIM IN LINE BEFORE I BEHEAD HIM MYSELF!" Hadvar barked, sending two young legionnaires to grasp Ralof by the shoulders and drag him to the line.

After the scuffle, names were called quickly and prisoners were filed back and forth. Soon, there was only one man left standing near the wagons. Hadvar called to him.

"You. Step forward."

Arin did as he was told, maintaining eye contact with his captors each step.

"Who are you?"

"Arinbjorn, son of Aremond, of Whiterun. You caught me when I was headed home after travelling for three years. I met these men two days ago." Every word he spoke was stiff. Sure, Arin had been in tough situations before, but this was the closest he had been to the headsman's block, and despite the cool demeanor he had portrayed to antagonize Lokir, he was one wrong step away from shitting his pants.

Hadvar looked over his list for ten long seconds before turning to the legate nearest to him.

"What should we do, ma'am? He's not on the list." There was mild concern in his eyes.

"It doesn't matter. He was with them; he goes to the block," the short legate responded in a gruff voice. She bore daggers into every breath Arin took.

"Yes ma'am," Hadvar turned back to Arin, "You chose a bad time to come back home. We'll make sure your bones are returned to Whiterun where they belong. I'm sorry."

Without another word, Arin was shoved towards the line of stormcloaks, condemned alongside them. He came to a stop next to Ralof, who, despite the blood trickling from his left ear, seemed to be unfazed by his confrontation. He was even smiling to himself, despite the situation.

"He still packs an impressive right hook…" Arin heard Ralof mumble.

Everything was a blur now. Arin was speechless and frozen in place. Two days ago, he had been preparing to be home with his family in Whiterun. Now he was minutes away from certain death. There was a priestess in front of them, saying something, but all Arin heard was a ringing in his ears. A stormcloak soldier without patience, even for death, cut her off and took his place on the block.

Swing.

Clump.

A body was being drug away now. A bucket was emptied and replaced. Another rebel was pushed forward. An axe reflected the sunlight and colored it crimson with nordic blood.

Swing.

Clump.

A set of hands grabbed Arin's shoulders and forced him forward. No matter how much he dug his heels in the ground and tried to resist, the force of the hands pushed him forward. A foot kicked out Arin's knees from under him, throwing him down onto the red-soaked block. The ringing in Arin's ears stopped, and he heard the commotion around him very well.

"Archers!" A voice in the distance called out.

"What is it?" the old imperial general asked from near Arin.

"A wagon, Sir. Rolled right up to the gate," the legionnaire called back, "there are a couple barrels loaded in it."

The imperial general narrowed his eyes in suspicion, then widened them in alarm.

"GET BACK! GET AWAY FROM THE WALL!"

Before his words registered with any of the soldiers, a flaming arrow came whizzing through the sky from the woods. Time slowed as realization set in and the soldiers tried to dive out of the way, but once the arrow impaled itself within the barrels, an explosion ripped through Helgen's main gate. Imperial legionnaires flew through the air, setting the sky ablaze. Others were attacked by the scorched splinters of the village's walls. The shockwave of the blast knocked everyone off of their feet, and threw Arin bodily from the block onto a nearby porch.

Before the dust could settle, a loud cry called from the woods. Through the haze and smoke, the shapes of many nord men in blue cuirasses came storming down the hill.

"FOR ULFRIC!"

"FOR SKYRIM!"

Arin pushed himself to his knees and tried to get his bearings. The rebels had breached the wall and the fighting had begun. Half of the city was on fire and citizens were fleeing for their lives. The other prisoners had broken their bonds and were gathering what supplies and weapons they could to fight the legion. Ulfric himself had ripped his binds and gag off, and was engaged in a very lopsided sword fight with the stocky female legate. The fight was lopsided because, not a moment later, a tell-tale FUS ripped through the air and sent the poor soldier ragdoll-ing across the clearing.

A jagged piece of wood sticking up from the porch caught Arin's attention. Arin tried to use it to rip the binds from his hands, but all he succeeded in doing was burying splinters deep into his palms.

"Arin! Here!" Ralof ran over and used an iron dagger to cut the ropes from his hands, then pulled Arin to his feet.

"Thanks! What's going on?" Arin yelled over the commotion of the fight.

"Contingency." Ralof answered with a smile, before quickly throwing Arin to the ground. Looking up, Arin saw that an arrow had embedded itself in the wall directly behind where he had just been standing. Ralof, stood above him, glaring. Following his eyeline, Arin saw the archer that had shot at him. It was the soldier Ralof had antagonized when they first arrived in Helgen.

What was his name…

"Hadvar." Ralof growled

…there it is.

Ralof never took his eyes away from his foe.

"Arin. I'm almost certain you're a capable warrior, but this is not your fight. Not yet at least. Take this," he handed Arin the dagger, "and get somewhere else for now. Find me after the battle. We'll talk more."

Arin nodded and looked for somewhere to make himself useful. Running and hiding wasn't exactly his style. He ran towards the now blown open gate, where citizens of Helgen were attempting to flee from the battle. Unfortunately, the fighting was growing too quickly.

Seeing the watchtower had not crumbled yet, Arin got an idea. He ran to the opening of the tower and, after making sure the building was not occupied, called out to anyone not holding a weapon.

"In here! Hurry!"

It wasn't long before three families and a vagrant were huddled together in the relative safety of the watchtower under Arin's spontaneous protection. His attention was pulled away, however, when one more family tried to seek refuge in the watchtower. As the wife and child reached the steps of the building, an arrow pierced the husband's shoulder and knocked him to the ground.

"Father!" the little boy called out, his mother trying to continue pulling him to safety. An imperial soldier ran up to the father.

"Torolf! You traitor!" the soldier screamed at the man in the mud.

"What?" the injured man questioned in fear, grasping his wound and trying to crawl backwards, "I haven't betrayed anyone! I'm trying to protect my son!"

The imperial soldier raised his blade. Whether he intended to kill Torolf, Arin couldn't say, but in the moment, he acted on instinct. Without a second thought, Arin rushed forward and buried his dagger deep between two of the soldier's ribs. The soldier's surprise was painted on his dying face, until he slipped away and fell into the dirt.

Arin didn't waste time. This wasn't the first life he had taken and it probably wouldn't be the last. He simply grabbed the man on his uninjured side and helped him to his family in the watchtower.

Meanwhile, Ralof marched towards Hadvar, picking up an abandoned sword on his way, and swung it in a high arc as soon as he was near. Hadvar, for his part, had tossed his bow and unsheathed his sword just in time to parry Ralof's strike. Hadvar made a stab at Ralof's chest, the blade deflecting off the hilt of Ralof's sword. After a brief recovery, the two locked into a stalemate, blades grinding and screeching against each other.

"You betrayed everything you stood for when you joined Ulfric!" yelled the imperial soldier.

"You know exactly what you betrayed when you didn't!" retorted the rebel.

"AAAGHH!" Hadvar broke the stalemate by throwing his shoulder into the blades, knocking Ralof to the ground. As he raised his sword for a downward strike, Ralof kicked out his knees, sending Hadvar toppling forward into the mud while he himself rose to his feet. Unluckily for him, though, Hadvar landed near a broken spear.

Grasping the polearm, Hadvar kept Ralof back by swiping a horizontal arc with the spear. He succeeded in slicing through Ralof's shirt and leaving a shallow, red scratch across his belly. This only pissed off the blonde nord more.

Ralof raised his sword high and brought it down onto his foe. Hadvar tried to block it with the shaft of his spear, but the wooden handle couldn't withstand the impact and shattered, deflecting the blade in the process.

Ralof, unfazed by this missed strike, took the opportunity to leap onto his opponent and reared back, ready to strike the killing blow. Yet, when the blade came down, it only made a splash in the mud next to Hadvar's face. The legionnaire's eyes widened in surprise, finding a satisfied, if not exasperated, glare resting on the blond stormcloak's face. Ralof got up and spat on the ground at his feet, claiming victory without spilling blood.

"RETREAT! LEGION, RETREAT!" The legate screamed, having survived Ulfric's Unrelenting Force with only a few broken ribs. Soldiers raced for the city walls, desperate to regroup after being decisively routed, their general conspicuously missing from both the dead and the retreating.

Ralof looked to the dwindling group of soldiers, then back to his opponent.

"Get up and leave."

Hadvar sat up and wiped the mud from his face, but this took too long for Ralof.

"NOW!" he insisted.

Their eyes met and the air became heavy with tension, but before it could reach a boiling point, Hadvar got up and took off running, losing himself in the fold of fleeing soldiers.

Arin watched on from his spot in the watchtower, the citizens inside well protected by his will, as well as the bloodied piece of metal in his hands. The rain landed on his face as he stepped out from under the awning and saw that the Stormcloaks had won the battle. He lowered his guard, letting the dagger in his hand slip to the ground.

He turned to look at the families behind him.

"We can come out now," he said between breaths, "It's safe."

Ah, the return to writing stories and sharing it with others. It is a sweet feeling. I hope you enjoyed this, and I sincerely hope you return for more. Leave me a review, ask questions, whatever floats your boat. You are amazing, and the world is better with you in it. Have a wonderful day. - K.C.